


Past Was Such A Long Time Ago

by LadyTP



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Confessions, F/M, Fanfic of Fanfic, Meeting Again, Not so happy, Prompt Fill, Restoration Era, Reunion, Unresolved Issues, alternative endings, alternative universe, and happy, characters have aged, grandfather clock, just because
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 23:21:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9928514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTP/pseuds/LadyTP
Summary: One day, Sandor receives a visitor from the past he had buried deep in his mind and thought forgotten. A visitor who threatens to upset his carefully wrought new life as a respected craftsman in a community of freethinkers. Time for the two of them has clearly passed by already a long time ago – so why is it so hard to see her again?Loosely set in Restoration Era England, AU picking up from where the ADWD left off.(EDIT: Comes with two alternative endings - because why not?)





	1. "Quiet now, boy."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ambrosia29](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambrosia29/gifts).



> And now for something completely different… A while back I requested in Tumblr for writing prompts consisting of a **theme** , an **object** and **character(s)** , and this is the second one I am doing (I know, I am slow…). This was submitted by Ambrosia29 (writerloverpsycho-pomp in Tumblr) as _“Confessions, grandfather clock, Sandor/Sansa and Arya”._
> 
> I had lots of problems with this, I admit straight out, the biggest being that grandfather clocks (also called longcase clocks) seemed to me a bit too advanced to fit well with canon era, being developed in later part of the 1700th century. So the story had to be set in a different era. I am not particularly keen about different settings in general, as to me the beauty and majesty of ASOIAF and all its relationships are irrevocably bound to the world of GRRM and once removed from them, lose much of their potency (but that’s just me). Yet alas, this was a challenge I had to face. Also, I found it hard to fit Arya into the story once I started writing, so she is here only as a mention.
> 
> The setting of this fic is loosely Restoration Era England, sometime in 1670’s or so. The Starks used to be a noble family in Northern England, Sandor a personal guard for the young prince in the capital. Since the revolutionary events of the Civil War Sansa found herself under the dubious care of Petyr Baelish, whereas Sandor ended up in a community of freethinkers consisting largely of people with Leveller and Digger leanings (political movements that emphasised popular sovereignty, equality before the law and religious tolerance, Diggers also supporting common ownership and agrarian socialism). I have taken some liberties with names, for example replacing Vale with Norwich and Winterfell with Carlisle, as per English geography and imaginary dukedoms. Please do not judge me harshly for my historical and geographical mistakes! As this was supposed to be just a short prompt fill, I haven’t dwelled too much in research but picked things up from what I knew before and done only some (probably) superficial searches… _Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa_ for all the mistakes in that regard!
> 
> Time has passed, both Sandor and Sansa are much older. Sandor is set to his ways – and then one day a familiar face shows up at his doorstep...

Sandor touched the smooth surface with his fingertips, let them travel down the exposed grain admiring the way the shapes undulated and weaved their way in the wood. He could feel every nick and roughness clearly – he had lost callouses from years of holding a sword and musket already a long time ago, and his hands were now his most sensitive tool of the trade.

They were large and gnarled still; those of a man who works with them every day. Prominent veins formed the web against the backdrop of browned skin dotted with sunspots.

Old man’s hands.

He huffed and got back to work, finishing the already scraped surface into an even finer sheen. Swoosh – swoosh – swoosh the pumice stone sang against the wood. There was a rhythm to it and he found himself in tune with it, with his body and soul.

It was the same rhythm and flow of peace he had finally found in his life, and his heart sang to its tune. A low growl from the floor alerted him and Sandor lifted his head.

“Quiet now, boy.”

The huge black dog sprawled down on his stomach went silent but revealed its teeth and a murmur below human hearing vibrated its chest, making Sandor glance out of the window.

He froze.

There, on the worn path leading to his little hut, walked a woman; tall and proud, carefully coiffed clusters of auburn curls framing her face and cascading down the front of her pale blue silk dress. The face whose features were achingly familiar although it had been a long, long time since he had last laid his eyes on it.

It was her.

 _Sansa Stark._  

* * *

 

                                                                                                                                                

The blue eyes he remembered from the past turned to him and widened. For a moment she said nothing, then a breathless exclamation.

“It IS you!”

There was no way she could see his scars, but apparently she didn’t need the testimony of them to ascertain the truth.

Or what she though was the truth.

“No. I am not the one you may think I am,” Sandor growled and tugged at the wide brim of his hat in vain to hide himself better but even doing that knowing it was useless.

“What…what do you mean? You _are_ the Hound, Sandor Clegane, formerly the personal guard of the prince – surely I can’t be mistaken!”

“You are mistaken. The Hound is no more.”

Sandor spoke gruffly and kept the door open just enough for the exchange to occur and to prevent Lilburne getting out. She didn’t seem to care about his reservations though, but without waiting for an invitation pushed herself through the frame - and bar shoving her back bodily Sandor didn’t see any other option but to let her in.

Sansa Stark entered the room, took a step back at noticing the huge dog sniffing at her skirts, but Lilburne was apparently satisfied that this particular visitor was accepted by his master and moved docilely aside when she moved.

Her gaze took it all in; sturdy work benches, tools hanging from the wall in a neat order, half-finished wooden cases, rough planks waiting for their turn to be shaped, clock mechanisms and pendulums strewn around on a high table. Sandor stared at her, looking so out of place in the middle of the workroom; like a porcelain doll among the rough wood and cold metal.

“What are you doing here?” He knew it to sound rude but he didn’t have time for courtesies.

She turned back on him and pierced him with her gaze.

“I had to see if it was you. I…I saw a magnificent black horse in the stables and it reminded me of the beast you rode. I admired it and mentioned that only once have I seen a horse of such fine stature, and one of the stablehands told me it its sire was as handsome.” She sounded breathless and spoke fast, as if she wanted to convince him of the validity of her presence there. “He also told me that the said sire had arrived with the man who is now the woodcarver and clockmaker and still lives here; a large imposing man with a burned face. And I knew.”

There was a difference in her behaviour from what he remembered; she was more confident, more self-assured, even though at that very moment she was visibly flustered. Sansa Stark of old would have never spoken to him so directly, nor studied his face so frankly.

She was not a girl anymore, for sure.  

* * *

 

What are you doing _here_ , in this place? I thought you escaped to the continent after all that went down after the king was beheaded.” 

“I am here with my son; he is sick and I heard about a skilful physician and healer who resides in this community and I came to seek his help…”

The rest of her speech was lost on Sandor who latched onto two words, _‘my son’_. Then he snorted. Of course the little bird had a family of her own, whatever had befallen on her. Women like her always did.

He interrupted her with a scoff. “Is he a dwarf as his father? Nobody can cure that, not even good Doctor Elder.” He couldn’t help his tone, the memory of hearing about her marriage to that vile little creature flashing in his mind.

Sansa bit her lip and looked down at the floor as if considering what to say next. When she spoke her voice was so low he could hardly hear her.

“It is an ailment of lungs. He is still just a boy and physicians in the borderlands don’t know how to help him.”

“Let me ask anew; what are you doing here, at my door?”

She looked up as if interrupted from her own train of thoughts.

“I… I had to come.”

Like that explained anything.

“What do you want from me?”

Her lips quivered. It must be as Sandor had supposed; she had reacted without a thought, had wanted to fulfil her curiosity like women were wont to do, without thinking of the consequences.

“You can leave now. The man you were seeking doesn’t exist anymore. Now you know better and can go back to your husband and son and forget you ever saw me.”

Oddly, he found it difficult to say those words when there were so many others he needed to say instead.

“No!” The intensity of her exclamation surprised him and from the looks of it, herself as well. Lilburne raised his head but detecting no further commotion rested it on his big paws once again.

Sansa gathered herself quickly though. “Only my son and I are here, staying for a few days at the Quiet Isle Inn nearby.”

Sandor opened his mouth to tell her how it was not really his concern where she and her family were, but she cut him out.

“I have to go now, I am expected at the luncheon. I…” She glanced at the back of the room where a simple table and chair and a cupboard on the wall hinted at it being more than just a workshop, and then through a half-opened door leading to another chamber furnished with a large bed.  “This is where you work and also live, is it not?”

The answer was too obvious so Sandor stayed silent. What would she do with that information anyway? She had had her curiosity sated, what else was there?

After a while,  probably having concluded that an answer was not forthcoming, Sansa turned to leave and almost ran out of the room. She was gone before Sandor could think of what to say.

Maybe there was nothing more he could have said anyway. 

* * *

 

She arrived again the next evening, just before twilight.

Sandor was eating his meal: brown bread, hearty vegetable soup with scraps of meat; simple and filling, just like everything in his life for the last many years.

She sat down opposite him but they didn’t speak - somehow it seemed right. She observed him though; every spoonful, every gulp of ale, every bite of bread. After he had finished, Sandor returned the favour and studied Sansa Stark as openly as she had studied him, not caring a whit about propriety. She had changed so much – and yet so little.

Her features had matured and despite her years she was still beautiful. Age had not dulled the vibrant colour of her hair; the promise of the pretty girl he had known had been truly fulfilled. She carried herself well and despite the plain dress she wore this time, her tone and bearing suggested that she was used to command others. Aye, a member of nobility for sure, not only by her birth but also by her present circumstances.

Suddenly Sandor recalled hearing that the Lannister dwarf had sided with the new king - just idle talk around the common hall to which he usually paid little or no attention, but which now took on a completely new meaning.

“Fucking Imp!” he muttered under his breath, unable to hold back.

Startled, Sansa met Sandor’s eyes and something that had laid silent for a long time twitched in his chest. Longing, a dream of having…

He wanted.

 


	2. "I like it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the warm welcome you have given to this new tale! In this chapter we hear a bit more about how they have ended up where they have...

Eventually, Sandor stood up and went to rinse his bowl in a tub of water. As if it had been a sign, Sansa spoke.

“It is not Tyrion Lannister I am married to.”

Sandor grunted. “That’s not what I heard. And he is still alive, isn’t he? Wormed his way into the favour of the new king.”

“Our marriage was annulled on the grounds of non-consummation when he was still in exile in the continent. My…my guardian arranged it.”

That stopped him in his tracks, the wet plate dripping water on the floor. _Non-consummation? The Imp?_

And she told him about her escape - if it could be called an escape when a prisoner changed hands from one jailor to another.

“Baron of Yarmouth, Petyr Baelish, helped me to get away from the capital and took me in. He made me dye my hair and told everyone I was his ward, a daughter of his old friend from the continent who had recently died together with his wife.” Her speech was toneless as if she didn’t want to speak of it.

“Baelish?! _Littlefinger_?! You married him? Fuck me sideways, you couldn’t…”

It was Sansa’s turn to interrupt him. “No, not him. A man of his choosing.”

Fucking Littlefinger! Sandor had seen the way he had watched her in the court, eyes narrowing as a cat assessing its prey. He had had a thing for the girl’s mother, everyone knew that, and then he had had Sansa in his clutches… Sandor gripped the edge of the roughly hewn kitchen bench so tight to that a splinter pierced his thumb. It was all he could do to keep himself in check and not start shouting and breaking things.

He had _known_ no good would befall on her when he had left her behind.

But Baelish marrying her to another?

“He wanted you fine, but not as his daughter. Surely even you could see that?”

“It was not as if I was in a position to turn down the only offer of help I received,” Sansa snapped. “My family dead and our lands confiscated by the Parliament, where was I to go?”

It was too much; Sandor sank on a stool next to the fireplace. For all the years he had spent thinking of her and imagining what he would say if he ever saw her again, he suddenly found himself unable to speak anything at all.

Not that he had ever clarified in his head what it could be – only some half-formed notions of apology for the way he had behaved before, especially that last night when the Parliamentarian troops had attacked the capital, lit the palace on fire and he had broken.

And almost broken her.

* * *

   

“If not him, who then?”

Sansa took a deep breath. “You wouldn’t have heard of him. Harold Hardyng was his name, and he was relative to the Duke of Norwich and became the Duke when the true heir, my young cousin Robert died. Baron Baelish intended for him to become the Duke of Carlisle as well after our marriage. Because of my claim”

“Was?”

“He is dead. He died not many years after our marriage, but not before leaving me with two sons. Children who mean the world to me.”

Sandor would have denied it had anyone challenged him for that, but for a fleeting moment he felt relieved. Then an ugly doubt took the moment away.

“And Baelish?”

She looked at him now, her expression inscrutable.

“He wanted to marry me, but by then I had something worth fighting for. I denied him and defeated him in his own game; I am now the Dowager Duchess of Norwich by my own right. The last I heard he was sailing to the colonies with a price on his head. He can never return home, I made sure if it.” She smiled, unexpectedly, but it had an eerie edge that chilled Sandor’s spine. “Nobody will make me do anything I don’t want to do. Hasn’t done for many years now.”

Hearing the determination in her voice Sandor didn’t doubt it. He had always through there had been more strength in that slip of a girl than anyone had given her credit – and it seemed he had been right.

He didn’t truly care about Littlefinger – but one thing niggled him.

_None of your business. Let it go._

Still it didn’t go away and finally, he had to ask.

“This man, Hardyng. Did he… did he treat you well?”

Sansa’s features relaxed. “He did, in his own kind. He was not a strong man, and not always the wisest – but he loved his sons and he let me be as I wanted. He never hurt me.”

What she left unsaid were all the other times the other men had done exactly that – including Sandor.

A log crashed in the fire and Sandor’s attention was focussed on lifting it back to the grate. When he turned back towards the room Sansa was at the door.

“I must go, my son must be wondering where I have gone. But I thank you.”

A nod of her head and she opened the door and was gone.

 _Thank you for what?_ Sandor was mystified, but years of practice in learning to let go of thigs he didn’t understand kicked in and he only shrugged his shoulders. She had wanted to tell him her story, for one reason or another, and now she had done it. If it gave her some closure, so be it.

For him, though, that night was as restless as the previous had been, and by the time he sank into a dreamless sleep the dawn was already peeking through the window.  

* * *

 

On the third night, she arrived carrying a basket filled with supplies; fresh white bread, cold chicken, rich cheese, pickles and little lemon cakes. The contents included also a bottle of wine, and although the offer tempted him briefly, Sandor declined. His years of drinking were long past.

As before, they were not in a hurry to talk while they shared the sumptuous fare, and Sandor liked it that way. He still couldn’t fathom why she came or why would she seek his company – an old man who was nothing to her; a lowly woodcarver and clockmaker with Leveller leanings and an aristocratic lady who was also one of the great landowners in the country.

“Twice I was told you were dead.”

Sandor stared at her. He had been picking the last crumbles of the cake – a rare treat for him – from his plate and licked his lips before answering.

“Me? By whom?“

“The first time I read it in the broadsheet; how a group of highwaymen had been caught and hanged, among them a well-known Royalist called The Hound.”

“It was not me,” Sandor said, stupidly. “It was a rogue who stole my identity, thinking to gain more notoriety be pretending to be someone else.”

“So I thought after I heard about your death the second time.” Sansa’s voice had started to quiver but she maintained her composure as a great lady would.

“From where?” Sandor wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or disturbed by the revelation that he had, in fact, been in her thoughts – at least twice.

“From Arya. My sister.”

 _The little bitch._ So she had found her way to her family after all. Without his questionable help.

Sansa got up and started to clean the table, a task which she did remarkably deftly for a highborn lady. Sandor made a gesture to get up but she put her hand up to stay him.

“She told me you two travelled together for a while. That you saved her life.”

“So she came back? Good on her. As for ‘traveling together’ – did she tell that I intended to ransom her to your family? Did she tell how she hated my guts and left me dying in a ditch?”

“She told me you tried to take her back to my mother and brother – for which in all fairness you would have earned a handsome reward, had that come true. And at that time… she hated everyone. She thought she had lost everything and everyone, and you represented those who did that to her. Can you blame her? But she is not like that anymore, and she doesn’t hate you. She knows you had been ill-treated as well.”

“Well, that is news I never expected to hear,” Sandor muttered.

“She told me that you were dead because she didn’t expect you to survive the injuries you got when you ran into your brother’s regiment. That there had been nothing more she could have done for you, all alone in the battle zone, you two being sought by the Royalists and Roundheads alike.”

“She should have let me out of my misery, that’s what she should have done.” Yet even saying that Sandor realised he was lying and only repeating angry words that had lost their meaning.

He had survived against all odds and been nursed to health by Doctor Elder. Not only his broken body but also his broken soul. And then he had been taken in by the community of freethinkers and his life had never been the same.

 

* * *

  

“I was angry at her,” Sansa whispered.

“Why?”

“Because she didn’t try harder.” Sansa stared at her hands, then raised her head. “What happened to you afterwards?”

Sandor’s story came out slowly and torturously but he persevered with it; thought he owed her that much in return of her confidences. He told her about his recovery and initial struggle to get out and seek revenge, seek battle and his old way of life.  He told her about Doctor Elder and the community and how they had accepted him, warts and all, and allowed him to come to terms with his life at his own pace. He told her about the teachings of John Lilburne and others about a better world, and how he had drunk their words - as utopian as they were.

“So you too know what it is like to rely on unlikely people for help when there is nothing else out there for you,” Sansa said softly. There was no challenge in her tone and Sandor decided not to take the words as such.

“What about the clocks?” She swept her hand to encompass the many finished and unfinished designs on the workbenches and side tables.

“Ah, those. When it was clear that my leg would never be good enough for farming, I still had to find a way to be useful around here. For a while I dug graves, but then I moved to do repair jobs around the place; mostly woodwork but gradually more and more mechanical repairs.”

While he talked Sansa had gotten up and moved around the haphazard collection, touching them.

“Then one day the grand clock of the Main House stopped working. It was a newfangled thing, given to us by an enlightened nobleman and freethinker who bequeathed his estate to the cause. Doctor Elder asked me to have a look at it and I did.” Sandor followed her as she moved around his creations. Usually he was uncomfortable about showing his unfinished work to outsiders, but this time he didn’t mind.

“It seems I have a penchant for widgets and so I started to do that work more and more; not only within the community but for the folk in nearby villages and towns too. Now I take my clocks to the markets in my cart and sell them to make money that goes towards the upkeep of the community.”

“So all the time when you were brought to believe that your talent was in soldiering and killing, you were meant to be fixing things, building things? I like it.” Sansa ran her fingers down the new clock-case Sandor was just starting; pure clean wood, its form only faintly starting to take shape.

Then she seemed to take note of the time – all working clocks that were set on a correct time – and sighed.

“I have to go.”

He didn’t ask why she had come or whether she would be back.

 


	3. "Who'd have me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all may have already caught on the notion that this story is not the ‘usual’ love story with sunshine and rainbows peering through an occasional rain, but altogether more melancholy and subdued rendition of how life has affected our two characters and what impact has the separation of many years had on them… I appreciate it may not be everybody’s cup of tea and I am sorry if this will not meet expectations of some of you about a cheerful happy reunion and love ever after.
> 
> Yet this is the way I write, and this is the story I want to tell…
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments, and if you feel so inclined, I would be curious to know more of your thoughts as we go forward!

The next evening the mealtime came and went and darkness engulfed the little hut and Sansa didn’t show up.

The next evening the mealtime came and went and darkness engulfed the little hut and Sansa didn’t show up.

Sandor went on about his duties, trying to concentrate on the tasks he had started before the interruption, but it proved difficult. The joy he usually took from seeing wood take shape had disappeared and every act was an effort.

He hadn’t thought of Sansa Stark for a long, long time. Hadn’t wanted to, but now that she was here and had wormed her way into his mind he couldn’t help it.

Polishing an almost undetectable blemish in a grain of wood Sandor tried to think what he should do. When – _IF_ – she came back, what he should tell her? To go away and not bother him anymore, or…the unthinkable? Should he beg her forgiveness?

He had not had opportunities to atone his many sins by means of forgiveness before, as most of those he had sinned against were dead or gone. Sometimes Sandor wondered whether he even truly wanted to do penance of his past – it was what is was, he had been in a different place, a different person even. Did the God truly care if he regretted his transgressions?

Past was such a long time ago – a gaping blackness he did not care to visit ever again. Maybe not even for her.

\----------

Twilight came and after finishing his meagre evening meal Sandor threw the scraps to Lilburne who swallowed them in one big gulp, his tail wagging for more while Sandor scratched his head absentmindedly.

He had been the biggest pup in the litter of one of the farm dogs, a mongrel of unknown paternity, but Sandor had felt an immediate bond with the brawny black beast and had requested it for himself. Since then the two of them had been inseparable; wherever he went, his black shadow was not far away.

If he was honest with himself, Lilburne had helped him at least as much if not more than the Doctor Elder’s treatises of atonement, forgiveness, cleansing one’s soul and putting bygone days aside.

“Here boy,” he threw another piece of cheese into those big jaws. “What shall we do with the Little Bird? Why don’t you tell me?”

The dog stared at him unblinking, his big brown eyes regarding his every move – but not exactly offering any meaningful advice.

“I don’t have a fucking clue either,” Sandor muttered.

 

* * *

 

She came just before midnight.

By that time Sandor had lived through the states of disappointment, relief and acceptance. They had met, they had filled in the gaps – what else was there? He had no reason to see her again, and she even less to see him.

And yet it was as if something was unresolved still. 

“I am glad you waited for me,” were her first words after she entered the room and sat down.

“This is my home. Where would I go?”

Lilburne meandered to her and rested his nose on her lap, delighted by this soft-spoken creature who smelled so good. Sansa smiled at the dog and patted his head. Sandor observed the exchange and concluded that his guard dog was getting soft.

Once again he wondered what it was that she wanted.

“Sandor – may I call you Sandor? May I ask you something?”

Not seeing a way to prevent her, and being a tad curious he muttered his approval.

“Have you ever thought of me since we have been apart?”

Sandor startled. It was unexpected; her calling him by his name and asking such a direct question no well-mannered lady would ever ask from a man – honing into his most guarded secret. He didn’t know what to say.

She didn’t wait long for his reply – which was not about to eventuate in any case – but rushed along.

“I thought of you often. More than often. I remembered how you were the only one who was kind to me and spoke honestly when everyone else around me lied and cheated or treated me as a traitor.”

“I didn’t…”

“You did, and I did notice. And I thought of you. And when I heard that you had died… I cried.” She hugged herself in the chair and something in her expression arrested Sandor who was just about to say something derisive. She, a lady, crying for the disgraced soldier – who would ever believe such bull? And yet…

In a moment of daring he decided to be honest with her. She deserved as much from him.

“You ask me if I ever thought of you. Well, I did. A lot. Not all thoughts were pretty, mind you. You were such an innocent child back then, you had no notion how ugly men’s minds can be, mine included. Doubt if you still do.”

If she was offended by his words she didn’t show it – the only sign that she had taken his meaning was red on her cheeks.

“I was naive then. There was so much I didn’t know or realise. But when I look back at us I don’t think ‘ugly’. I think ‘honesty’.”

 _Us?_  

* * *

 

After a prolonged silence Sandor didn’t know how to fill, Sansa spoke again. This time she was looking at Lilburne who tilted his head and regarded her curiously – but Sandor knew her words were for him.

“My eldest is a boy of seventeen – a man really. He is at home, learning to become a Duke. His name is Edouard.”

“Why a French name?”

Sansa smiled. “My husband was a bit of a Francophile, and I didn’t mind. He was still named after my father, you see.”

Lilburne had clearly decided that he liked this woman and her touch, settling down on Sansa’s feet and resting his big head on her dainty boot. Sandor couldn’t blame him.

“My youngest is fifteen, and he should be learning to be a man as well, but he has always been frail. His name is Robert – you know, for Robb.”

“Your husband didn’t have names to give?”

“He let me have my way with most things. He was a not a bad man if a bit weak. We didn’t have much in common but we had our children.”

Sandor didn’t care to continue the discussion about the Little Bird’s husband so he changed the topic. “Ailment of lungs, you said?”

Sansa sighed. “Yes, sometimes he can’t breathe and starts wheezing and gets all red… I do hope Doctor Elder can help him. It breaks my heart to see him in distress.”

“Hmmph.”

“You have found…no-one?”

The thought was so preposterous that Sandor almost laughed – but seeing that she was serious he restrained himself.

“Who’d have me? No, I have my dog and an old nag to pull the cart and that’s enough for me.”

She looked at him – damn she had learned that skill well, unflinching and piercing straight through a man’s being – but said nothing.

He could have said something more but he chose not to.

They fell silent. Sansa focussed on and fussing about Lilburne, who was scratching his ear with his powerful back leg, not the least interested in the discussion.  

The ticking of the many clocks around the room, the chimes of the finished piece by the door, the wind blowing through the rafters and the many creeks and squeaks of an old wooden building were the only sounds surrounding them. Familiar, soothing.

Sandor tried to think of something to ask, perhaps more as means to keep her in his company for a bit longer rather than out of real interest.

“How is it there, in Norwich?”

Sansa looked up, surprised.

“Well, maybe not that different than what you know of such life. You have lived in the court and in high households, after all.”

After Sandor’s noncommittal grunt Sansa searched for words for a while, her gaze unfocused and staring at something only she could see.

“It is… peaceful. Our manor is deep in the countryside, surrounded by fields and forests and lakes. And yet it is not lonely. I have plenty of company; my sons, of course, their tutors and the old governess who is more family member than a servant, and an unmarried cousin from my late husband’s side of the family has moved to live with us. And we have friends nearby - hardly a day goes by without one of my lady friends visiting me. Myranda Royce entertains me with her stories, Mya Brune comes by and her children play with mine, the old Countess of Waynwood shares with me all her ills and pains – she is the grandmother of my late husband, you see.”

Sansa warmed to the topic as she spoke, and the world she described painted to Sandor a vista of domestic tranquillity dispersed with social gatherings, hunting parties, evenings filled with poetry reading and music, an occasional trip to the town where she had another house.

And every aspect of that world was alien to him.

Yet in an odd way, he enjoyed the portrayal of Sansa’s life – she was clearly in a good place. Happy even - something he had not dared to hope for her. That it was in a different world than his didn’t come as news to him – their worlds had always been apart.

When Sansa left, no promises were made about her return, and Sandor didn’t expect any.

* * *

 

The next day Sandor started a new clock.

It had started as a custom order for a tavern at the other end of the valley, but he decided that the order could wait for a bit longer – he had bigger plans for this one.

The basic form of the case had already been shaped but he made it rounder, curvier, more elegant. He wanted it to be light and delicate, and yet strong enough to carry the mechanism, for which he chose the one with the softest chime; a pleasing melodious tinkle.

The inspiration and satisfaction of his work that had abandoned him earlier came back with a vengeance and the day passed with him hardly noticing it, so engrossed was he at his task.

Cutting, polishing, carving, adjusting…hours just flew by. He also spent a long time with a piece of paper and a quill designing the decorations. Wolves were not commonly used is clocks, the usual motifs being flowers and leaves, but he wanted to honour the ancient coat of arms of the Starks of the North. She might be a Dowager Duchess of the Norwich but in his mind she was always a wolf - and a little bird.

Sketch after sketch of wolves, birds and a few hounds soon littered his table.

Sandor felt alive.

\----------

She didn’t come that evening.

Sandor wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed, but in the end decided that it was better that way. If he reprimanded Lilburne sharper than usual when he tried to steal the scraps from his table, who was to know or care?

Before retiring to bed Sandor walked to his modest bookshelf and ran his fingers across the spines of books in it – a meagre collection by any standards, but the community respected learning and it was common to share books, to pass them from one person to another. Since discovering the joy they brought Sandor had rarely spent an evening without burying his nose into one tome or another – religious books, political treaties, adventures, broadsheets…anything that broadened his mind.

“At least you are still here,” he said to no-one in particular - maybe to Lilburne, maybe to his books.

Reading had become only one of the many routines in his life. Waking up early to greet the morning on his own was his favourite part of the day; watching the sun come up and wake the world with its rays. Slurping a bitter brew of wild herbs and thinking of the day ahead, talking to Lilburne who listened as if he understood every single word. Washing his face with cool water from the nearby well, sensing on his skin every drop intensely.

Then a day submerged in his tasks – never ending but always different. Sandor had learned to like his new profession, the creativity and the feeling of satisfaction of a completed piece of work. The consistency of it; a break for a midday meal, sometimes a visitor or two entering through the door to inquire about his progress, to present a new commission or to collect a fulfilled one.

Then an evening meal in the common hall when he felt like it and when he had an urge to meet other people. Or on his own in his hut, if he chose to. Over the years he had accumulated an assortment of people around him who he could only think of as ‘friends’, as odd as the concept had first been to him.

Some of them were veterans of the Civil War or other, foreign wars; quiet men who harboured their nightmares deep within, just like Sandor did. There were grudging respect and camaraderie among such men, as well as recognition of when a man wanted to talk and when he did not. The companionship that suited Sandor well.

Once a week he went to the market, sometimes nearby, sometimes further ahead, breaking the monotony of the week - and yet every time when he returned from one such trip, he was eagerly waiting to get back to his routines.

Life was good. He was happy – as happy as any man had right to be.

 


	4. "Shhh, it’s only me"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot - as they say - thickens… Just a short one this time.

Sandor worked hard the next two days, the clock taking shape under his hands. Every now and then he stopped, walked to the window and peered towards the path leading to the Main House and the Quiet Isle Inn.

She didn’t come.

\----------

Sandor was already at sleep, having succumbed late at night unable to keep his eyes open anymore, finally crawling under the quilts. The restlessness of earlier had vanished and he had slept well the last few nights, waking up to fragments of dreams of auburn hair.

Yet he had soldier’s instincts still, engraved in his mind too deep to ever get rid of – and they woke him up and told him that he was no longer alone.

The hut was quiet, bar the usual night-time sounds, but when he strained his ears he heard a soft pat of Lilburne’s steps on the floor. Quiet, unhurried, so it must not have been anything worth rousing his master that had got him up.

The next thing he knew was a weight landing on his mattress, his quilt being lifted and a voice whispering into his ear, _“Shhh, it’s only me.”_

**_What the fuck?!?!_ **

Even when her form curled by his side and her hair brushed the side of his neck Sandor could not believe it. He laid frozen stiff, afraid to move should that somehow break the spell.

It was not a dream – his dreams of her, many years ago, had had a completely different unworldly atmosphere. This was too harsh, too real. The squeak of the bed frame giving in under them, Lilburne’s panting as he settled down in his usual spot on the floor, the hair rising all over his body.

His throat dry he croaked, “What the hell are you doing here?!”

A moment of silence, during which he felt Sansa’s body pressing closer towards him. Heaven forbid, was she dressed only in her _shift?_

_“I had to, I wanted to.”_

Then he felt her hand touch his chest, slowly, hesitantly, a gentle brush of her fingers and words withered and died before they reached his lips.

Sandor slept naked as usual, only coldest of winter nights seeing him donning a night shirt. The reaction of his body took him by surprise - he had thought himself being already past such things and indifferent to charms of women. Yet it was more than obvious that his body responded to her, even if his mind was still in disarray.

“You can’t… you won’t…” Sandor tried to utter. How to tell a lady to get out of his bed? How to tell her it was dangerous, it was foolish, it was simply not right? How to…

 _“I can…and I will… shhh…”_ Her fingers moved lower and Sandor was lost.

 

 

* * *

  

Sandor woke up alone the next morning. Only an indent on the mattress served as a sign that she had been there for true - that, and a sweet satiety of his whole body. 

He lifted his feet on the floor and just sat there at the edge of his bed, face buried in his hands, for a long time. Finally, he peered between his fingers at Lilburne who had already been on his morning jaunt in the woods and now looked at him expectantly, his tail wagging.

“What a fine guard dog you are! What did she do, did she even have to bribe you with a morsel to keep you quiet, or did you lay down and yield outright?” he scolded the dog – then stopped, realising he himself had yielded just as easily.

Sandor flexed his arms and stared at his hands; gnarly joints, blunt fingernails. Glancing down he had to admit that his body was giving up on him; although still tall and strong, his muscles were not as firm as they had used to be, his knees ached on chilly days and sometimes when he moved his joints made hideous cracking sounds. The hair on his body – previously jet black – was streaked with grey, as was the hair on his head and his beard. Life of a soldier had been as hard on his body as his soul – and no amount of meditation and contemplation was going to cure the former.

_What business has an old dog like me bedding a lady?_

Last night had been... Sandor shook his head. He wasn’t sure what it had been or how to feel about it. Sansa had been confident and sure of herself and had taken charge when he had been too dumbfounded to do it.

Darkness and the silence between them – every time when he had tried to speak Sansa had hushed him with a sound or a press of a finger on his lips - had lent anonymity that had made it possible to pretend that it was not _her_ , it was not _him_ in that bed. Just two people, a man and a woman, engaging in the most primaeval act of the world. 

It had been uncomplicated and straightforward and urgent, their coupling. He had flicked her on her back and nudged his way between her thighs and he had touched her and licked her and he had enjoyed it – every second. She had seemed to find her pleasure too if he was to judge her shudders and little noises she made towards the end correctly.

And yet there has been also tender moments; sweep of a hand slowly and tentatively taking in the human landscape under it. Slide of fingers through hair, a gentle scratch. Little kisses peppered on shoulder, chest, breast, navel. And then, after he had pulled away, Sansa had placed her hands on the sides of his face, pulled it towards her and kissed him. Hard but tender, the urgency of their deed melting away to lazy and lingering.

That single act had felt more intimate than the rest of it – her taste, her lips, her tongue.

By that time the clouds had moved away and the glow of a full moon had illuminated the room, and finally he had seen her fully. Seen a grown woman, not a flushing maiden with a flat belly and a slim body. She had given birth, twice, and her stomach was round and soft and her breasts had lost some of their perkiness - but she was still achingly beautiful and life-affirming and _real_.

She was also wealthy and of good breeding and a Dowager Duchess and she could have anyone she wanted.

_Why me?_

“Didn’t know you still had it in you,” Sandor rumbled looking at his cock, now flaccid and resting comfortable in the nest of black and grey hair.

It had been a while since… Sandor had never held rutting with a woman in particularly high regard. Sometimes men had needs and as long as there were women to be had without resorting to rape, what of it? And if there was no need, what of it too?

A few widows in the community had eyed him since his clock-making had taken off. Some had even made advances, judging his earning potential enough to counteract his brusqueness and unsightly looks. He had turned them down civilly but firmly and after a while, he had been left alone.

There had been a few – a miller’s widow who had lost her leg under the wheels of a wagon and to whom Sandor had fashioned a wooden leg. Whether it had been her uncertainty of herself as a woman since the loss, her gratitude, or something else, she had warmed Sandor’s bed for many a night over the years. Never serious, never with direction – but they had both received whatever they had been searching.

A travelling couple who had passed the region some years ago, quarrelsome but bound together by necessity. Sandor had not even paid attention to them in the common hall, but the woman had sought him out after and taken him into the woods - and he had not objected.

He could have also gone to bawdy houses on his market trips, but by then Sandor had gotten used to his life as it was. Only fools and young men paid heed to urges that were usually not worth the trouble or money.

Sandor shuddered. Last night had been a mistake. He should have told her to leave at once. He should have lifted her off his bed and pushed out of the door. He should have…

He sighed.


	5. "Come here then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three more shortish chapters and this tale is done! What is with me and the prompts…I simply don’t seem to be able to write a short one-shot…

Sandor’s morning was slow, his thoughts scattered and hard to pull together. Yet he was not used to allowing his inner turmoils to distract him – if he had, he would have spent half of his time doing nothing and moping over all the things that had gone wrong in his life. Not that the incident had been exactly _wrong_. And if not that, had it been _right_ , then?

And suddenly Sandor realised that good things had never appeared to him precipitously but had sneaked in when he had not been looking. The satisfaction of finding a place he felt at home; respect of his peers and companions; work he could put his mind and soul into.

Not knowing what else to do he turned to his task and after a few stops and starts it grabbed him in its hold once again. If anything, now he had a reason to be even more attuned to every detail under his touch.

Every now and then an unbidden memory flashed through Sandor’s mind and he dropped his tools remembering the way how smooth the skin in her inner thighs had felt; how silken her hair; how gently her fingernails had scratched his back. It was disconcerting, it was wildly arousing and the memory caused both pain and pleasure. Then, after gathering his wits again, he shook his head and got back to work.

After the midday meal which he enjoyed sitting on the doorstep with his back leaning against the wall and the rays of sun falling on his face, Sandor closed his eyes and invited her back by his own will. He allowed himself to recollect every little moment, from the first whispered words until he had succumbed to deep sleep after exhausting himself in her arms.

He wondered once again why it had happened. Had it been her way to say goodbye? Had Doctor Elder’s treatment helped the boy? Had Sansa and her son already left the inn to return to their palatial home?

Sandor didn’t truly expect her to return but nonetheless, he was alerted by every sound and movement outside as the day and then evening went on.

Of course, she didn’t come.

\----------

Sandor went to bed with little expectations; as the day had progressed he had become even more convinced that it had been an odd sort of goodbye and Sansa had done exactly as she had planned by disappearing from his side before the morning had arrived. Unfathomable, incomprehensible and inexplicable goodbyes – but surely she was gone by now.

And hence the feel of Sansa once again sneaking under his blanket took him by surprise. This time, though, he reacted swiftly, grabbing her wrists and holding them firmly against the pillow, staring at her flushed face.

“What the fuck is this? Why did you come last night? Why did you come now?”

Sansa had been taken by surprise; her eyes wide she breathed hard – but didn’t struggle against his grip.

“I told you. I had to.” She stared back at him, unflinching.

“Fuck you had to.” Sandor couldn’t tell why he was all of a sudden angry.

Sansa’s features softened and she looked down, then up again. Her gaze was not hard this time but muted, almost pleading.

“I wanted to. I knew…” She stopped, looking away again.

Sandor knew it was not his face that disturbed her anymore – so what was it? He shook her, not too hard. “You knew what?”

She took a deep breath.

“I know now that all that time ago in the court you really cared for me. I didn’t understand it then, but later I saw it in your actions and your words, even though you tried to cover it. I hope you don’t think me presumptuous for saying so – but I do think I am right. And I knew you didn’t do it because of my family’s wealth or power or my father’s ties with the King, or because anything to do with my position. Or because I looked like my mother.”

Sandor was dumbfounded. What had that anything to do with this? It had been so long ago and both of them had been different people then. But there was truth in what she said, and he owed her that much.

“I did. I don’t deny it, I wanted you. But you were just a child then. I would have never…”

A slight narrowing of her eyes interrupted him. He _almost_ had.

That night. 

* * *

  

 “…I didn’t.” Sandor replied stubbornly to the accusation that was never raised, uncomfortable about the unbidden glimpse into the past. He released Sansa’s wrists and threw himself on his back, staring at the ceiling.

It was Sansa’s turn to raise and hover above him, elbow resting on the mattress.

“You didn’t. And hence I knew it was more than just wanting. That you were different. That your feelings towards me were different.”

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what to say.

Sansa’s long hair – combed and released from the elaborate hairdo of curls and ribbons – hang down her sides, its tips resting on his chest, tickling.

“I guess I wanted to experience how it would… feel to be with someone who cares.”

Sandor couldn’t follow her logic although he tried. She had been courted and married and she was beautiful and rich and kind… Something didn’t add up.

“If that was all you wanted, I am sure there is no lack of men for that. You are a handsome woman, capable and kind. There are scores of men who’d want a woman like that, with or without your connections and fortune. And you are a free woman so nothing is stopping you.”

Sandor spoke dryly, not sure what to think of Sansa’s revelation. That husband of hers; ‘weak’ she had called him, and ‘not always wise’. Well, if he hadn’t fallen head over heels in love with his wife, he was all that and worse.

“But there is also the matter of my own feelings. And I told you that I thought of you a lot. I remembered you always.” The last words were almost a whisper.

Sandor turned his head and looked at her. How could it be?

He didn’t hate himself as much as he had used to – he didn’t hate anything or anyone as much – but when it came to her there was doubt he had done absolutely nothing to earn her affections. Quite the contrary.

Or so he had thought.

Sandor stared at her for a long time, trying to decipher things she had said. Was this all only a misguided folly, an attempt to colour the dark past with rosy hues to make it more palatable? To conjure a love story from thin air…or from something that only _could_ have been… If so, he suddenly felt sorry for her. He had found his peace and if she was still searching for hers - well, he wouldn’t begrudge her that.

Calm came over him and he extended his hand to touch her cheek.

“Come here then.”

She bent down and their lips met.

\----------

Afterwards, they rested peacefully side by side, Sansa snuggled against him and Sandor’s arm curved around her shoulders. There was no need to talk.

It had been gentler this time, the urgency having transformed to something else. Reverence, perhaps. Gentleness. More kisses, more whispered words, more care in touch, fewer inhibitions. They had even laughed once when Sandor had gotten himself tangled in the sheets and struggled to lift himself on top of her. Easy laugh, her soft giggle and his low chuckle sounding in the stillness of the night.

“Come with me.”

Interrupted from his reveries Sandor struggled to take in her meaning.

“Where?”

“To Norwich. To my estates. You could set up your workshop there. Surely people there need clocks as well. And you said yourself you do all kinds of repairs and have a way with widgets.”

“Why?”

“You are still asking that question?”

Without conscious thinking, Sandor’s mind flashed back to the last and only time he had visited a city since his escape from the capital. It had been only a small one, not even one of the great trading centres - and yet it had stifled him. Living in the country amongst his own people – yes, these people were _his_ now - was the only way he could see his life going forward.

Then again, he hadn’t been exactly offered any other choices so far, had he?

* * *

 

Sounds and smells of the night surrounded them. It had been a warm evening and Sandor had left the window open, and now the smell of fresh earth and wet leaves permeated the air. Owls hooted in the forest on their deadly missions of tracking creatures of the night.

He was silent so long that Sansa shifted again and lifted her head.

“Did you hear what I just said?”

“I heard a proof that you are more a fool than I thought. I believed nothing would top you stealing here not once but _twice_ – but this did it.”

“Now you are just teasing me,” she sighed, exasperatedly, but lay down again. Her fingers twirled in the hair of his chest, lazily.

“What would I do there?”

“I told you. Anything you want. Your clocks, other repairs. Every village would be happy to have a master clocksmith and a woodcarver as you.”

“I would stay in the village and you in your mansion nearby. With your sons, and surrounded by your society friends.”

“You could set up a shop in the estate if you wished. We have tradesmen doing their trade within our grounds. Most just prefer the village because there are more people there.” She lifted her leg on top of his, knee on the thigh, in an innocent gesture that bore no hint of seduction. Sandor liked its weight there.

“My sons are almost grown up. Edouard is nearly finished with his schoolmaster and will soon travel to spend some time with my relatives in the North before taking up the duties of his position in earnest. Robert is much better now and with the continuing care following Doctor Elder’s instructions should soon see him returning to his education as well.”

“And you will sneak into my workshop when you have a chance? Without anyone noticing?” There was a hint of tease in Sandor’s voice. Noble ladies were never alone but surrounded by other ladies, relatives and curious folk of all kinds, and their actions were scrutinised by all and sundry. Sansa’s own words had confirmed as much.

Despite the flamboyance and loose habits of the new court, country gentry was as prudish as ever and even a hint of impropriety caused scandals.

“If you let me,” she whispered into the hollow of his neck.

Sandor felt as if the world had turned upside down and he didn’t know which way was up, which down. Something was not right in this setup – things simply didn’t turn out this way. He stared at the ceiling for a long time but didn’t see it.

“Sleep now, little bird. I will wake you up before the dawn so you can steal back to your room,” he finally sighed.

“I should leave now,” she whispered, “but maybe I can stay just for a moment…” – and almost as soon as the words left her mouth she fell asleep.

Sandor stayed awake and watched the moon and the sky and clouds, the light turning first to a lighter grey, then into a golden hue as the sun peeked above the horizon.  He was not tired; he could not sleep in the face of such enormous offer.

He woke Sansa at a time when he knew most of the people were still abed, and she got up disorientated and yawning, slid on her plain dress and stepped softly out of the door. No kiss of goodbye, just a quick turn of a head and a smile.

 


	6. “Not that it is my business.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What will Sandor decide? What will Sansa do? When is this story over? When will I get out of Restoration Era England? So many questions, so few answers… Thank you for all who are still hanging on, despite the sad undertones of this story!

He might as well replenish his stores, Sandor resolved halfway through the morning, since his peace of mind had been so profoundly disturbed once more leaving him unable to concentrate on his work.

Lilburne bouncing on his heels he set out towards the main hall and its kitchens. A large underground cellar next to it contained the common stores where people were allotted what they needed. His own requirements were modest; bread, grits, butter, eggs, potatoes, onions, cheese, ale, and meat or fish if they were on offer.

“It has been a long time not seeing you, Master Clegane! In what hole have you been hiding?” greeted Mistress Martha him with an easy smile, her cheeks plump and rosy.

She was a widow of a Royalist, her husband done to death at the early days of conflict in the battle of Winceby. She had been in awe of Sandor since the first time she had laid her eyes on him – had never seen such a big man before, she had said. It suited Sandor well, as she always added an extra helping of salted herring or a block of cheese into his allocation - luckily expecting nothing in return.

Brushing away her questions of why he hadn’t been around lately with feeble excuses Sandor escaped as soon as he had filled his sack with the bounty, muttering something about a need to go and see Doctor Elder. People knew the two of them were close, and the regard the whole community held the good doctor in made Mistress Martha stop her questioning and let him go.

A half-full burlap sack hanging from his back he made his way to Doctor Elder’s offices wondering if he could see him in private and perhaps find out something about the plans of Duchess of Norwich. Surely the boy’s physician would know whether they were about to depart soon?

As he approached the humble wooden house where the doctor’s rooms were, he saw Sansa emerging from it with a tall young boy. Her son, the one she named after her foolish brother who had gotten himself killed in the middle of the second uprising.

Sandor observed them from behind the shed, himself being unnoticed.

The boy had a look of Sansa about him; auburn hair, delicate features, tall and gangly in a way only boys in the middle of their growth spurt can be. Whichever way he looked, Sandor couldn’t decipher much of the features of the man who was his father, the Little Bird’s late husband.

She leant towards the boy and spoke to him in low voice, reached for his cheek and brushed it, smiling. The boy shrugged his shoulders and replied, a somewhat sullen expression on his face. Sandor couldn’t make what they talked about, but then Sansa laughed and the boy smiled, and it was clear from the scene that the mother and the son were truly close.

Sandor’s heart constricted.

A man in a fine livery approached them holding a cape, undoubtedly a footman or a man servant. Only then Sandor noticed how Sansa herself was dressed, in fineries like that first day when she had appeared on his doorstep; burgundy dress of rich fabric and fine laces decorating the collar and sleeves, her hair curled and ribboned.

She turned around for the cape to be lowered on her shoulders, never taking her eyes off her son, and the man stepped away as unobtrusively as he had appeared.

It was the way of nobility – servants were there to fulfil their needs and for nothing more, and nobody saw anything wrong with it, and yet Sandor winced.

He stared after them until the little party had disappeared over the hill toward the Quiet Isle Inn.

* * *

 

“Duchess of Norwich is leaving tomorrow.”

Sandor looked at Doctor Elder from where he was sitting across the cluttered room. It was his office as well as the room where he saw his patients, and anywhere Sandor looked were signs of many interests this unusual man harboured; books, pamphlets, medical instruments, dried plants, stuffed animals, rock collections, jars filled with gruesome samples and many other oddities besides.

“Her boy getting better, then?”

Doctor Elder looked up from the letter he had been writing when Sandor had entered. He was a tall man even when hunched in his seat, with a large head, shrewd eyes and a veined red nose. He looked more like a soldier than a doctor and as a matter of fact had been one in his youth.

“He is, I am delighted to say. I have prescribed him cold baths, a light diet, gentle exercise and inhaling the smoke of a thorn-apple regularly. If he abstains from high emotions and strenuous exercise, he should be fine.”

He resumed his writing, the scrape of his pen on paper monotonous and continuous.

Sandor shifted on his seat. He had what he had come for and yet it would seem odd if he left straight away.

“Her maiden name is Sansa Stark – but you knew that already, didn’t you?” Doctor Elder didn’t look up.

Sandor tried to remember what he might have told him about Sansa. He didn’t think it to be much, she having been relegated firmly to his past life by the time he had started to live in the community. And yet… when Doctor Elder had first found him by the roadside and carted him back, he had been delirious with wound fever and drifted in and out of consciousness. Heavens knew what he had babbled on then.

Could he have talked about _her?_

“What of it?” Admitting or denying were both useless so Sandor didn’t even try.

“Nothing. Just that she too has had a tragic past, the demise of her once powerful family when the King went down leaving her with scars. Not maybe as obvious as those in your face, but deeper, hidden.”

Was he trying to tell him something? For a moment Sandor considered telling him all – but then abandoned the notion. It was too complicated. Too raw. It was his life – had been back then and was now – his mistakes, his penitence.

_And hers._

“Many people have lived through tragedies. And survived. She doesn’t seem to fare so badly, from the looks of it,” he said instead.

“Sometimes all it takes is to face the past and let go of things we have held onto, rightly or wrongly, for us to move on.” Having finally finished his writing the good doctor lifted the piece of paper and waved it in the air to dry the ink. He peered at Sandor over his glasses. “Why do you ask me of her?”

“No reason. I was just wondering, seeing such a fine lady coming out of here. Not often you have patients of that stature.” It was weak, Sandor knew, but his old friend didn’t seem to mind, only smiling at him.

“Well, now you know. They plan to start their journey around midday, I heard her instructing her manservant to get their carriage ready by then.”

“Not that it is my business,” Sandor muttered and clambered up, grabbing his sack from the floor. “I better get these back to my hut.”

“My door is always open to you, Sandor, you know it.”

\----------

Sandor’s walk back was unhurried but his mind was buzzing.

 


	7. “We have only this time”

She arrived before midnight – as he had known she would.

Sandor had not undressed but lay in his bed in his clothes. He had smothered the fire and lit no candles, but when he heard the soft footsteps and the soft creak of the front door he waited until she slipped beside him before speaking.

“Sansa.”

“You knew I was coming, didn’t you?” There was lightness in her tone and she snuggled next to him – only to draw back when she realised that he was clothed.

“We must talk.”

“Yes…sure. That’s why I am here.” The lightness was replaced by uncertainty now, but she continued to lay by his side, unmoving.

Sandor had decided that he couldn’t delay what he had to say – as tempting as it would have been to let the impossible dream to continue for a little longer.

“I can’t come with you.”

 _There._ He had said it.

A sharp intake of breath, then silence.

“You heard me?”

“I heard you,” Sansa said, timidly. The high noblewoman who had defeated her foes in their own game no more, but the girl she had once been. Sandor felt a monster – once again.

“Your life is not mine. It never was and it will never be.”

“I know _that_. But it doesn’t have to be, you can still have your own life.”

“My life is here now. These people – they took me in and accepted me. I may not be the same man I was before, but my face has not changed. Country folk still tell their children that if they don’t behave the Hound will come and take them away. People still remember.”

Sansa sighed and turned on her back.

Sandor wasn’t sure if he was making the biggest mistake of his life or not. He had thought nothing else since the previous night and at times he had felt ready to leave everything behind and follow the dream of a girl. Long held, secret dream, by miracle come alive after all these years.

And a moment later he had looked around his hut, remembered the warm greeting of Mistress Martha and the miller’s widow and the old man with whom he used to go fishing sometimes and Doctor Elder in his messy rooms – and the way how unconsciously Sansa had slipped into the role of a noblewoman who did not consort with commoners.

He didn’t blame her – how could he when that was what she was born to be?

“I realise what I asked of you is a lot. I should not have been presumptuous. I only thought…” She sighed again. “I was being selfish.”

“Not more than anyone else. You _thought_ you wanted – but do you know what you _really_ want?” Sandor had reached the conclusion sometime in the afternoon and it had made him both sad and in an odd way, proud.

“You. I want you.”

“You say so. Maybe even think so. But all you want is for someone to want you and care for you for your own sake.” Sandor turned to his side and saw her silhouette in the moonlight. He wasn’t good with this kind of talk but wanted to at least try to convey to her what he had realised.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Maybe. But not everyone has gone through one betrothal, two marriages and one twisted courtship not because of what they are, but what they represent. The prince, Lannister, Baelish and this Hardyng - enough to terrify any woman I’d wager.”

Sandor lifted his hand and wondered if she’d shy away from his touch. There was a great warmth in his chest when he looked at her; affection, perhaps something more. He didn’t want to hurt her with his words, but if it was for her own good, he might have to.

His fingers met the crown of her head and slid down following the flow of her curls.

She didn’t shy away.

* * *

 

“What is it that you mean to say?” Sansa whispered.

Sandor kept on stroking her hair, almost chastely.

“You think that I cared. And I did. I do. But I may not be the only one – if you pay attention.” It hurt to say it, but it was a right thing to do.

“How would I know that?! I am still what I am – my circumstances attract all kinds of suitors. There has been a few over the years. Yet every time when one comes to my door bearing gifts, I wonder what it is that he truly wants.” She was animated, gesturing into thin air. Lilburne, who had followed her into the room and then settled on the floor, got up and let out a cautious _‘woof’.  
_

“The same way you sorted me out. Look them in the eye, show them you can see through them. To hell with social courtesies. If they are the right sort of man, they will meet you eye to eye.”

Sansa huffed, part desperate, part angry. Still, she didn’t push him away or flinch at his touch.

“And this is your last word? You will not come?”

“I think it is high time for you face your own demons, like I did mine. You are strong enough to do it, I know I - you are of the wolf’s blood,” Sandor said, his voice hoarse of suppressed emotions whose names he didn’t know.

What happened next, surprised him. Sansa, after lying still for a long time digesting his words, turned on her side facing him and inched closer, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I think about it later. But I accept that I can’t ask you to uproot yourself from everything you have made of your life for my selfish wishes. I couldn’t do that for you,” she whispered against his throat, just where his beard morphed with the hair on his chest.

Sandor patted him awkwardly on the back. Relief of her understanding flooded him, and yet he was conscious of her proximity and the sensations it caused. He had calculated on her leaving as soon as he told her his decision, and to have her lingering so close was disconcerting.

“You’ll see it yourself when you let go of this impossible folly,” he uttered, subtly untangling himself from her grip. Surely she would get up next?

“I think of it later. When I must. And I remember what you said.” She nuzzled against him, her hand slipping under his shirt – and there was nothing chaste in that. “But I am leaving tomorrow. If you are not following me, this time is all we have. You and me.”

Sandor was still unsure – how could she not hate him after what he had just said? – but he didn’t spend too much time lingering over it.

He wanted.

Still, he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sure most of you already saw this coming – but before you bang your laptop shut in frustration, do note that theirs is still a love story – just somewhat unusual. They meant a lot to each other in the past and during the time they were apart, despite the impossibility of their positions; they influenced each other in a profound way and in this story, they finally got the closure they always needed to move ahead with their life. Both Sansa and Sandor are first and foremost individuals and everyone who likes them probably ships them first of all with happiness…which they shall now have (even Sansa once she lets go of her past demons). 
> 
> One more chapter to go – something a bit different… Thank you for reading! If you feel like it, I would be curious to know what you think of a story that does not end up with the traditional happy ending of the lovers ‘living happily together ever after’…


	8. Epilogue - The Wolf Clock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried and tried to conjure a continuation scene from where we were left in the last chapter, but eventually I concluded that there was none – all that needed to be said or done had already been so… 
> 
> So apologies to anyone to whom this last chapter comes as a surprise – but this is the ending I envisaged for this from early on. And as anyone who has read my fics before knows, I am a sucker for epilogues…
> 
> I am sure you all can read between the lines what was the follow up to their story… bittersweet as warned, but not a tragedy by all means.

_**Entry in Sothesby’s auction house catalogue in April 2017, ‘Important Watches and Clocks’ section** _

 " **Wolf Clock”**

‘Wolf Clock from Winterfell’; Catalogue Number 128, dated approx. 1671-1674. A unique and highly notable longcase clock, one of the first of its kind ever seen in Great Britain.

** ESTIMATE  **

Estimate Upon Request.

Sales starting price £300,000. _[ Click to __read condition report_ _/ saleroom notice_ _]_

** PROVENANCE **

**The first known owner:** Sansa Hardyng (later Sansa Cassel, nee Stark), Duchess of Norwich, since then held by bequeathing or inheritance by the descendants of the original owner.

 **The current owner and seller:** Her Grace Beth Stark, Duchess of Carlisle.

** EXHIBITED **

The Patek Philippe Museum, Geneva, 2001 - 2005.

** LITERATURE **

Wilson, C.,  _The Art of Longcase Clock_ , London, 1998, pp. 289-291, 356-360. 

Julienne, A. _The Patek Philippe Museum: An Introduction,_  Geneva, 2001, pp. 21-22.

Rodriguez,GN, “Un Age d’Or des Arts Décoratifs _:_  1649-1700” _, Dossier De L’Art, December 2003- January 2004_ , Paris: Galeries Nationales du Grand Palais, pp. 339, fig. 2.

** CATALOGUE NOTE **

No other horological invention has been as significant and influential as a longcase clock, finding its way from palaces and grand houses of the European royalty and aristocracy to the mansions of lower nobility, bourgeoisie and middle class (also called tall-case clock, floor clock, or grandfather clock). The present example is named ‘Wolf Clock’ after its rare decorative motifs and its association with family Stark, whose coat of arms bears an image of a wolf. This clock has the most complex longcase clock mechanism of all the known examples of its time, far more advanced than its existing contemporaries. The complexity of the mechanism is only rivalled by the clock’s sumptuous case.

The origins of this clock are shrouded in mystery, but it is first described being in the ownership of the Duchess of Norwich in late 1600’s. The clock has remained in the ownership of the descendants of the original owner to this day and is being offered for sale for the first time in its history.

** THE CLOCK **

The Wolf Clock is an eight-day movement weight-driven pendulum clock with the pendulum held inside the tower of the case. It is freestanding, with a height of 46in (1.16m), and its style represents the earliest known form of _Comtoise_ style clock, also known as  _Morbier_  clocks or _Morez_  clocks, featuring a curved "wide-hip" case and a greater use of curved lines, which distinguishes this style from other more angularly shaped styles.

The case features elaborately carved ornamentation on the hood (bonnet), which surrounds and frames the clock face, which is ten inches in diameter with the chapter ring made of copper, as are numbers and graduations. In addition, the clock internal mechanism has some unusual features that place it firmly among the most sophisticated clocks of its time (for details see Wilson, 1998).

The richly decorated case is made of oak and has cherry wood inlays and hand-made carvings, and is veneered overall. The decorations are one of the reasons for its name, being most extraordinary for a clock of this era, depicting various animals scrolling through the woods and landscapes dotted with rivers and castles. The most prominent of these is a wolf, being depicted individually as well as in packs, but another frequent motif is a small bird and another animal which appears to be a large dog, clearly distinguishable from the wolves. All three motives are used frequently and seem to be interacting with each other, making the style uncommon in comparison to hunting scenes and pastoral depictions of the time. Unlike often illustrated settings of hounds hunting wolves, the art of the clock presents all animals engaging with each other harmoniously.

The maker of the clock is unknown, although historians have tried to trace it to early pioneers such as Thomas Hackney from London or William Lassell from Toxteth Park, Liverpool. Neither can, however, be confirmed. The only sign of the clocksmith is the inscription on the inside of the door opening the case, _“From SC to LB”_ , and two other inscriptions with initials SC (in the brass pendulum and in the clock face). Other clocks of various types with the same initials are known, many of them in the original ownership of inns, town halls, country gentry and the Church, suggesting that the clock-maker did not frequent in high society, which may explain the lack of details about the clock’s creation.

Some suggestions have been made that the clockmaker could have been a self-taught clocksmith near Cambridge by the name of Sandor Clegane. Some sources link him with a Royal Guard and Captain of Royal Arms of the same name, known for his brutality and ruthless reputation in the service at the court of King Charles I, but others refute this pointing to the documented death or this Clegane during the Civil War. The clockmaker Clegane was known as a leveller and a man of peace and the inconceivability of such a change in a character has also been quoted as an argument against these two being the same person. Not much is known about the clockmaker Clegane except that he lived and died at old age in the same community he had lived in since before the restoration of the monarchy, and that in his lifetime he produced a large number of clocks mostly to local communities. None, however, manifesting the complexity of the Wolf Clock, casting some doubt on the claims of him being the creator of this unusual clock. Without further proof this way or the other, the maker of the clock is commonly attributed as ‘unknown’.

 **DOCUMENTATION**    
  
Accompanied by a facsimile of a letter bequeathing the clock to Lady Sandra Hardyng as a wedding gift (document no. 8, dated August 30, 1692), and a facsimile of the list of household items Lady Cathelyn Mormont took with her upon her marriage with Lord Richard Stark (later Duke of Carlisle) (document  no. 23, dated December 2, 1789). No documentation regarding the initial commission or payment or the clock has been found.

**THE PATRON **

**Sansa Cassel** (nee Stark, previously Sansa Lannister and Sansa Hardyng) Duchess of Norwich (1635 - 1709).

Sansa Cassel was born as Sansa Stark in the Winterfell Castle in Carlisle in 1635. The eldest daughter of Eddard Stark, Duke of Carlisle, and Catelyn Stark (nee Tully), Duchess of Carlisle, Sansa was one of five siblings. At young age, Sansa was sent to the court of Charles I, whose close confidante and officer her father was. For a short time she was engaged to the second surviving son of King Charles, Prince James (later King James II and VII). At the eve of King Charles I’s execution she was briefly married to Lord Tyrion Lannister, the second son of Duke of Hereford Tywin Lannister, but the marriage was soon annulled due to non-consummation.

The English Civil War saw the fortunes of Starks greatly diminished and their lands confiscated, and Lady Sansa spent most of Protectorate period in Norwich, where she married Harold Hardyng, a relative to then Duke of Norwich, Robert Arryn. Harold Hardyng later inherited the dukedom at the death of the young duke, thus conferring the title of Duchess to his wife.

The marriage of Sansa and Harold had two issue, sons Edouard (1655 – 1722) and Robert (1657 – 1712) before the Duke died in a hunting accident in 1658. The Duchess got married again in 1676 to Jordan Cassel from Carlisle. The groom had no title and the mismatched marriage was frowned upon by the contemporaries of her class, but this did not prevent the couple having one daughter in 1675, named Beth, and by all accounts living happily together for the rest of their lives.

  
In addition to issues from two marriages, before her third marriage Sansa Hardyng fostered an orphan girl Sandra Stone in 1673, who remained with the family as a recognised daughter and sister to Beth. The fostering took place when Sandra was just an infant, and at the time there were speculations about her actually being an illegitimate daughter of the Duchess herself. However, the Duchess’s reputation was flawless and no proof was ever found to support the notion. The Duchess was also never linked to a particular suitor at the time, so gradually the rumours died down.

Sansa Cassel was well-educated with modern views about politics and social issues and a clear passion for the arts and craft. She regularly spent more than ten percent of her annual income on art, cultural patronage and social issues and welfare. She had broad collecting interests, which ranged from medieval works of art to new emerging technologies and furniture. She was passionate about contemporary paintings and in later years established a renowned collection of clocks and timepieces, the start of which is sometimes traced back to this piece, the Wolf Clock being the first piece of that kind in her collection.

Sansa Cassel died peacefully in her sleep while visiting her ancestral family home, the Winterfell Castle, after a sudden bout of pneumonia, leaving her younger husband a widower. By that time all lands and honours the Starks had lost during the Civil War had been restored to them, and it was during one of her many visits to see her brother Duke of Carlisle, Brandon Stark, when the Duchess left this world. At her request, she was buried in the crypts of Winterfell, where her ancestors had been buried for centuries before.

** KNOWN HISTORY OF THE CLOCK **

The Wolf Clock is first mentioned in the contemporary correspondence by a visitor to the Dowager Duchess of Carlisle in 1674. The description can leave no doubt about it being written about this particular piece, referring to it as “the most unusual clock the Duchess kept in her own bedroom instead of in the drawing room”, then goes on describing the wolf, bird and hound decorations, and how it “is still looking as new” and “having the most pleasing jingle when it strikes the hours”.

Hence the estimates of the age of the clock place it to 1671-1674, although no knowledge of its commission, purchasing or even maker are known.

At the marriage of her foster daughter Sandra to the Earl of Dunbar John Umber in 1692 the Dowager Duchess gave the clock to her as a wedding gift, and it travelled with the bride to her new home in North Berwick. The marriage was extremely prestigious for a foster daughter, but Lady Sandra was described by contemporaries as a strikingly beautiful and tall young woman with dark hair and beautiful grey eyes, so it is likely that the marriage was a love match rather than an arrangement between the families.

The Wolf Clock stayed in the ownership of the descendants of Lady Sandra for several generations, being bequeathed from mother to daughter until in 1776 the great-great-great-grand-daughter of Sandra Umber, Cathelyn Mormont, married Lord Richard Stark, later Duke of Carlisle, and the clock ended up in Winterfell Castle. There the clock has stayed until these days.

The current owner is selling the clock to pay for the upkeep of the castle, which is a National Trust acknowledged historic property and open to the public. The owner has expressed a wish to see it being purchased by a museum or a public trust so that future generations can enjoy its uniqueness.

 

**\---------- THE END -----------**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case if anyone wonders who was Sansa’s next husband, I don’t have a neat name linked to a canon character to give you– but I do have the surname Cassel, an honest Northern family close to Starks in good times and bad. I’d like to think Sansa found the honesty and straightforwardness of the people from her youth refreshing; brave enough to match her boldness, and strong enough to face the challenge she subjected all her possible suitors after her meeting with Sandor. And she had her memories of Sandor still, and assurance of him in the most concrete way - and I like to imagine that there were may times when she thought of him and saw him in her foster daughter…and then she went smiling back to her family and her husband who loved her dearly for her own sake and not because of what she represented.
> 
> And Sandor – he lived in peace for the rest of his life, respected by his peers and surrounded by people he could call his friends. He too, often thought of Sansa, maybe even heard of a daughter she had - maybe the two of them even paid a visit to the community some years after…
> 
> Thank you all for reading and commenting and following this story that did not have the usual happy ending! Life _is_ a song, sweetling, but not all songs have a happy tune…


	9. ALTERNATIVE ENDING: “I know what I want – do you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Surprise surprise!**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>    
> Here are two more chapters to this story, an alternative ending nobody asked for... 
> 
> _‘Why?’_ you ask, and that is a very good question. Nobody requested it, nobody got huffed up or angry about the ending I wrote but quite the contrary, everyone was exceedingly polite and understanding. So why? 
> 
> Well, simply just because _I_ wanted it and was curious about how it _could_ have played out differently…How would a fanfiction of the fanfiction work out? And being the writer, I was in a privileged position to do what I wanted! Besides, I am not a stranger for alternative endings; ‘A Premeditated Union’ was an alternative ending to ‘A Chance Encounter’, and one of my earlier fics in LJ, ‘Desperately, Madly’ also had two different endings.
> 
> So here is fanfic of my fanfic – starting from Chapter 7 in ‘canon fic’ where Sansa returns to visit Sandor for the third night, after she had suggested him to join her in her estates. I hope you enjoy!

 

* * *

 

She arrived before midnight – ashe had known she would.

Sandor had not undressed but lay in his bed in his clothes. He had smothered the fire and lit no candles, but when he heard the soft footsteps and the soft creak of the front door he waited until she slipped beside him before speaking.

“Sansa.”

“You knew I was coming, didn’t you?” There was lightness in her tone and she snuggled next to him – only to draw back when she realised that he was clothed.

“We must talk.”

“Of course we must talk. That and...” She tugged the hem of his tunic, not quite as boldly as attempting to remove it, but the hint was there.

Sandor had concluded that it would not be fair to let things go any further before he told her what was in his mind. How things were not as easy as she assumed then to be.

“Your suggestion is as foolish today as it was yesterday. Things are not that simple - I can’t just up and go with you like that.”

 _There._ He had said it.

Sansa inhaled sharply but didn’t say anything.

“Did you hear me?”

“I heard you,” Sansa said. Her tone was calm but her hand had stopped moving. “Why would you say it, though?”

“It is my whole life we are talking about. And your life is not mine, it wasn’t back then and it isn’t now.”

“Your life is yours, that much is true.” Sansa sighed and turned on her back. She stared at the ceiling for a long while, so long that Sandor thought she was altogether done with talking to him.

“You say you can’t – or you _won’t?_ ” Her voice was low.

“What difference does it make?”

“It makes an enormous difference.” She turned to look at him. “What is it that keeps you here?”

“I am comfortable here and people accept me even though they know of my past. It is not the same elsewhere - country folk still tell their children that if they don’t behave the Hound will come and take them away. And although I may not be the same man I was then, my face has not changed.”

“That does not keep you _here_ – it only keeps you way from other places. There has to be more.”

Sandor had thought nothing else since her suggestion but unfortunately, the answer was not quite as straightforward as he would have wanted it to be. In one moment the truth had been clear; after seeing her and having learned that his long-held secret dream had by some miracle come alive after all these years, there had simply been no other option but to follow her.

Then a moment later a different truth had emerged; he had looked around his hut and felt the satisfaction and safety of his current life. He had thought of Mistress Martha and her warmth and the miller’s widow and the ease with which they enjoyed each other’s company when they needed it. He had remembered the old man and his son with whom he used to go fishing, and the farmer’s son who helped him in his workroom and the enjoyment he felt in seeing the optimism and enthusiasm of youth through his eyes. And then there was Doctor Elder in his messy rooms – how could he leave all of that behind? Sansa’s world was that of nobility who did not consort with commoners - and he was not going to be part of that world but left to fight his battles with his fellowmen once more. And he was tired of it.

“I have my work here.” He swept his hand towards the direction of his workroom. “I have people around me, people I care about.”

“Who are those people? Who do you not want to leave?”

Sandor named the first few who came to his mind. Doctor Elder, his fishing companion and his son, the young man who wanted to apprentice to him. He told her about Mistress Martha but stayed silent about the miller’s widow.

Sansa listened, and after he stopped, nodded her head. “Take them with you. I have enough space for all of them.”

Sandor’s mouth fell open.

“I can’t ask them that!”

‘Why can’t you? Do you mean to tell me that none of them would take the opportunity for a new life, especially the young ones? This farmer’s boy – you say he would like to learn your trade but he is needed in the fields. If I would pay for his apprenticeship and compensate his parents for the loss of his labour, would he not jump at the opportunity? The other boy could be your servant. Mistress Martha could be your housekeeper. Doctor Elder could come too – but if he doesn’t want to, he could visit us – often. I have requested his services regularly for my son in case, and he has already agreed to visit us when we need him.”

She sat up, hugging her knees, talking animatedly. Sandor could only stare at her in amazement, the way her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled.

“You wouldn’t be coming into my estates as a beggar, or as a charity case. No, you are a highly skilled tradesman and you would arrive in a fine carriage, in fine clothes, with your workshop in wagons and your own people in tow. I would give you the money – borrow if you prefer, and you could pay me back from your earnings. I would be lucky to have a man like you working in my estates, and that’s how people would see it. If I learned something from Petyr Baelish, it is that people see what you _want_ them to see if you are determined enough.”

Sandor shook his head. He, a man with a household and servants; who’d ever heard anything so ridiculous?

“They would still find out who I am.”

“Yes, who you _are_ – not the man you used to be. Do you think you are the only one with a dark past? Recent years have seen many men transformed, some for worse and some for better. And yet even the biggest sinner is forgiven if he changes his ways – as you have done.”

Sansa touched his shoulder, lightly, but to Sandor it was as if a live spark would have flowed from her to him.

“I understand it was hard for you here at first – you rebelled, you fought against it, you alienated people in your transition from your old world of violence to this new world of tolerance. Yet that is all in the past. And your people, those who know you as you are now, would help you to adjust to the life in the new place.”

Despite his reluctance, Sandor had to admit there was some sense in what she said. Yet, what if he could uproot himself and move to a new place – it would still not solve the issue of what would be between them. Or rather, what could _not_ be.

“Be it so, maybe. But what good would it do for you – for us?”

“Us” was still a strange word in his tongue, like a taste never experienced before, the taste of which he was not sure whether he should get used to.

“You think you want this – but I think I know what you _really_ want.”

He had reached the conclusion when trying to understand what could make a lady like Sansa to even contemplate a future with a man like him. His realisation had hit him hard but once he had thought of it, he knew he couldn’t hide the truth – not from himself and not from her.

“I _know_ what I want. I want you.”

“So you say, and maybe even think it is true. But what you really want is someone who wants you because of _who_ you are, not _what_ you are. Someone who doesn’t see you as a good catch or a fulfilment of their twisted fantasies. Just you.” Sandor watched her sharply. He wanted to catch the moment when she realised the truth of his words – and her own folly.  

And the end of his dreams.

“What if I do - doesn’t everyone? How is that news?”

“It may be so. But not everyone has been betrothed to a monster, married twice to men not of their choosing and preyed upon by a man to whom you were just an image of your mother. The prince, Lannister, Baelish and this Hardyng. No surprise that you are confused and are ready to settle for less than what you deserve.”

Sandor wondered if she’d shy away if he would touch her. He knew his words were harsh and probably not something a woman who had just offered herself to a man might expect. He truly didn’t want to hurt her with his words, but he couldn’t shy away from reality either. And yet when he looked at her he felt great affection and warmth, and something more, something he didn’t deserve.

He touched the crown of her head and slid his fingers down following the line of her cheek.

She didn’t shy away.

* * *

 

  

Yet she wasn’t placated quite so easily.

“What is it that you mean to say?” Sansa demanded, her eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I would be settling for less than I deserve?”

Sandor kept on stroking her hair, almost chastely.

“You think that I care for you. And I do. But I may not be the only one; there will be others, men from your world.” It hurt to say it, but it was a right thing to do.

“Maybe so. But I don’t _want_ another. I am sick and tired of suitors at my door, men whose motives I don’t know and of whom I have to wonder what it is that they truly want.” She was animated, gesturing into thin air. Lilburne, who had followed her into the room and then settled on the floor, got up and let out a cautious _‘woof’._

Sandor didn’t let go.

“How do you know what it is that _I_ want? You knew me once, long time ago, and then you walk into my life for a few days. Is that enough for you to understand what you would get yourself into with me?”

Sansa huffed, part desperate, part angry. Still, she didn’t push him away or flinch at his touch.

“It is, for me it is. If it is not for you, however, I understand. But don’t use me as an excuse for your own doubts. I know what I want – do you?”

That stopped Sandor. He had been so focused on making Sansa understand her choices that he had forgotten about his own. Yes, he had concluded that his peace of mind and his life was important, and thinking he would lose it had prevented him seeing Sansa’s suggestion as a viable way forward. Yet, if he could do that… and have her… even if not fully.

Could he settle for pieces, for stolen moments and secret trysts?

What happened next, surprised him. Sansa, after lying still for a long time waiting for him to digest her words, laid down again and inched closer, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“You don’t have to answer now. Think about it. I accept that asking you to uproot yourself from everything you have made of your life is selfish,” she whispered against his throat, just where his beard morphed with the hair on his chest.

Sandor patted him awkwardly on the back. The certainty he had reached after hours of contemplation had vanished and he was dizzy, his head swimming in possibilities that had reopened in front of him. He was also exceedingly conscious of her proximity and the sensations it caused. He had assumed that she would leave as soon as they had had their talk, and to have her lingering so close was disconcerting.

“I can’t ask you to… I haven’t said I will accept your offer,” he uttered, subtly untangling himself from her grip. Surely she would get up and leave at any moment?

“I don’t care. I wish you will, but I accept if you don’t.” She nuzzled against him, her hand slipping under his shirt – and there was nothing chaste in that. “But in either case, I am leaving tomorrow. If you are not following me, this time is all we have. You and me.”

Sandor was still unsure – how could she give herself to him if he was to turn her down later? – but he didn’t spend too much time lingering over it.

He wanted.

Still, he wanted.

 


	10. ALTERNATIVE EPILOGUE: The Wolf Clock

**Entry in Sotheby's auction house catalogue in April 2017, ‘Important Watches and Clocks’ section**

**“Wolf Clock”**

‘Wolf Clock from Winterfell’; Catalogue Number 128, dated 1673. A unique and highly notable longcase clock, one of the first of its kind ever seen in Great Britain.

** ESTIMATE  **

Estimate Upon Request.

Sales starting price £300,000. _[Click to_ _read condition report_ _/_[ _saleroom notice_](http://www.sothebys.com/en/auctions/ecatalogue/2012/important-watches-n08882/lot.124.html#saleroomNoticeModal) _]_

** PROVENANCE **

**The first known owner:** Sansa Clegane (nee Stark), Duchess of Norwich, since then held by bequeathing or inheritance by the descendants of the original owner.

 **The current owner and seller:** Her Grace Beth Stark, Duchess of Carlisle.

** EXHIBITED **

The Patek Philippe Museum, Geneva, 2001 - 2005.

** LITERATURE **

Wilson, C.,  _The Art of Longcase Clock_ , London, 1998, pp. 289-291, 356-360. 

Julienne, A. _The Patek Philippe Museum: An Introduction,_  Geneva, 2001, pp. 21-22.

Rodriguez,GN, “Un Age d’Or des Arts Décoratifs _:_  1649-1700” _, Dossier De L’Art, December 2003- January 2004_ , Paris: Galeries Nationales du Grand Palais, pp. 339, fig. 2.

** CATALOGUE NOTE **

No other horological invention has been as significant and influential as a longcase clock, finding its way from palaces and grand houses of the European royalty and aristocracy to the mansions of lower nobility, bourgeoisie and middle class (also called tall-case clock, floor clock, or grandfather clock). The present example is named ‘Wolf Clock’ after its rare decorative motifs and its association with family Stark, whose coat of arms bears an image of a wolf. This clock has the most complex longcase clock mechanism of all the known examples of its time, far more advanced than its existing contemporaries. The complexity of the mechanism is only rivalled by the clock’s sumptuous case.

The origins of this clock are well known, it being first described in the ownership of the Duchess of Norwich in late 1600’s. The clock has remained in the ownership of the descendants of the original owner to this day and is being offered for sale for the first time in its history.

** THE CLOCK **

The Wolf Clock is an eight-day movement weight-driven pendulum clock with the pendulum held inside the tower of the case. It is freestanding, with a height of 46in (1.16m), and its style represents the earliest known form of _Comtoise_ style clock, also known as  _Morbier_  clocks or  _Morez_  clocks, featuring a curved "wide-hip" case and a greater use of curved lines, which distinguishes this style from other more angularly shaped styles.

The case features elaborately carved ornamentation on the hood (bonnet), which surrounds and frames the clock face, which is ten inches in diameter with the chapter ring made of copper, as are numbers and graduations. In addition, the clock internal mechanism has some unusual features that place it firmly among the most sophisticated clocks of its time (for details see Wilson, 1998).

The richly decorated case is made of oak and has cherry wood inlays and hand-made carvings, and is veneered overall. The decorations are one of the reasons for its name, being most extraordinary for a clock of this era, depicting various animals scrolling through the woods and landscapes dotted with rivers and castles. The most prominent of these is a wolf, being depicted individually as well as in packs, but another frequent motif is a small bird and another animal which appears to be a large dog, clearly distinguishable from the wolves. All three motives are used frequently and seem to be interacting with each other, making the style uncommon in comparison to hunting scenes and pastoral depictions of the time. Unlike often illustrated settings of hounds hunting wolves, the art of the clock presents all animals engaging with each other harmoniously.

The maker of the clock is a well-known clocksmith and one of the early pioneers of longcase clocks in Great Britain, Master Sandor Clegane. The clock was a groom’s gift to his bride on the eve of their wedding, and it bears inscription on the inside of the door opening the case, _“From SC to LB”_ (sic! possible a secret nickname to his bride Sansa Hardyng), and two other inscriptions with initials SC (in the brass pendulum and in the clock face).

Clegane was a self-taught clocksmith originally from Gloucester with an unusual past. In his youth he was a member of a Royal Guard and Captain of Royal Arms, known for his brutality and ruthless reputation in the service at the court of King Charles I. He left the court shortly before the King’s execution, and for a long time records of him are patchy and his death was even documented in the broadsheets of the time. However, after the Restoration he emerged back to the history’s pages as a leveller and a man of peace, running his own workshop as a clockmaker. In 1672 he moved to Norwich and established a thriving business there under the patronage of Duchess of Norwich, whom he married the following year.

Clegane-clocks were sold all over England to all levels of society, including town halls, country gentry and the Church as well as high society and nobles. His work was advanced for the time, but none manifested the complexity of the Wolf Clock, which he himself was known to consider as his masterpiece.

  **DOCUMENTATION**    
  
Accompanied by a facsimile of a letter bequeathing the clock to Lady Sansa Clegane as a wedding gift (document no. 8, dated August 30, 1673), and a facsimile of the list of household items Lady Cathelyn Mormont took with her upon her marriage with Lord Richard Stark (later Duke of Carlisle) (document  no. 23, dated December 2, 1789). No documentation regarding the payment for the clock has been found, it being a gift.

** THE PATRON **

**Sansa Clegane** (nee Stark, previously Sansa Lannister and Sansa Hardyng) Duchess of Norwich (1635 - 1709).

Sansa Clegane was born as Sansa Stark in the Winterfell Castle in Carlisle in 1635. The eldest daughter of Eddard Stark, Duke of Carlisle, and Catelyn Stark (nee Tully), Duchess of Carlisle, Sansa was one of five siblings. At a young age, Sansa was sent to the court of Charles I, whose close confidante and officer her father was. For a short time she was engaged to the second surviving son of King Charles, Prince James (later King James II and VII), whose personal Captain of Royal Arms her third husband Sandor Clegane was. It is not known how well the two knew each other at the time, but from the proximity of both to the court it can be estimated that they at least were aware of each other. At the eve of King Charles I’s execution she was briefly married to Lord Tyrion Lannister, the second son of Duke of Hereford Tywin Lannister, but the marriage was soon annulled due to non-consummation.

The English Civil War saw the fortunes of Starks greatly diminished and their lands confiscated, and Lady Sansa spent most of Protectorate period in Norwich, where she married Harold Hardyng, a relative to then Duke of Norwich, Robert Arryn. Harold Hardyng later inherited the dukedom at the death of the young duke, thus conferring the title of Duchess to his wife.

The marriage of Sansa and Harold had two issue, sons Edouard (1655 – 1722) and Robert (1657 – 1712) before the Duke died in a hunting accident in 1658. As mentioned, the Duchess got married again in 1673 to Sandor Clegane. The groom had no title and the mismatched marriage was frowned upon by the contemporaries of her class, but this did not prevent the couple having one daughter in the same year, named Sandra (1673 – 1742), and by all accounts living happily together for the rest of their lives.

Sansa Clegane was well-educated with modern views about politics and social issues and a clear passion for the arts and craft, which she shared with her third husband. The couple regularly spent more than ten percent of their annual income on art, cultural patronage and social issues and welfare. Lady Sansa had broad collecting interests, which ranged from medieval works of art to new emerging technologies and furniture. She was passionate about contemporary paintings and in later years established a renowned collection of clocks and timepieces, the start of which can be traced to her husband, the Wolf Clock being the first piece of that kind in her collection.

Sansa Clegane died peacefully in her sleep while visiting her ancestral family home, the Winterfell Castle, after a sudden bout of pneumonia. Her last husband had succumbed to a wasting disease (most likely cancer) only a few months earlier. By that time all lands and honours the Starks had lost during the Civil War had been restored to them, and it was during one of her many visits to see her brother Duke of Carlisle, Brandon Stark when the Duchess left this world. At her request, she was buried in the crypts of Winterfell where her last husband’s bones were interred as well, to rest among Stark ancestors.

** KNOWN HISTORY OF THE CLOCK**

The Wolf Clock is first mentioned in the contemporary correspondence by a guest attending the wedding of Lady Sansa and Sandor Clegane. The description can leave no doubt about it being written about this particular piece, referring to it as “the most unusual clock the groom gifted to the bride”, then goes on describing the wolf, bird and hound decorations, and how it “has the most pleasing jingle when it strikes the hours”. Hence the building of the clock can be placed to 1673.

At the marriage of the couple’s daughter Sandra to the Earl of Dunbar John Umber in 1692, the Duchess gave the clock to her as a wedding gift, and it travelled with the bride to her new home in North Berwick. The marriage was prestigious but unexpected due to the groom’s engagement to another lady of high society at the time the couple met. Lady Sandra was described by contemporaries as a strikingly beautiful and tall young woman with dark hair and beautiful grey eyes, so it is likely that the marriage was a love match rather than an arrangement between the families.

The Wolf Clock stayed in the ownership of the descendants of Lady Sandra for several generations, being bequeathed from mother to daughter until in 1776 the great-great-great-grand-daughter of Sandra Umber, Cathelyn Mormont, married Lord Richard Stark, later Duke of Carlisle, and the clock ended up in Winterfell Castle. There the clock has stayed until these days.

The current owner is selling the clock to pay for the upkeep of the castle, which is a National Trust acknowledged historic property and open to the public. The owner has expressed a wish to see it being purchased by a museum or a public trust so that future generations can enjoy its uniqueness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you once again – this has been a fun ride! I hope I am forgiven this whimsical turn of events – but since fanfiction writing is supposed to be fun and for one’s own enjoyment, I did what took my fancy… Bye until the next time! :-)


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